A Place Above the Shadows
by jenron12
Summary: "Maybe the ache of a life lived in the shadows is beginning to pull him apart at the seams – but what he wants, more than anything, is to hold onto the moment just a little bit longer. To live. To breathe. To feel normal, for a change." Multi-chapter, Cal-centric. Very strong trigger warning.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: I can't stress enough that this story comes with a **trigger warning** \- a big one. Please, please, please keep that in mind throughout this chapter and in the upcoming installments. This is a Cal-centric fic, and as we all know, he did not have a picture-perfect childhood. My goal in writing this is to uncover a bit of the "_why_" behind some of his quirks, to peel back a few of his layers, and finally, to understand why his bond with Gillian was so very strong.

A dear friend volunteered to beta this for me, and so to her I say a resounding "Thank You." Those two simple words don't really do it justice, but they're truly heartfelt.

And now, on with the story...

(PS - To anyone still following "Take the Long Way Home," it's still being actively written, and my next update will be posted there. My muse just needed to switch gears for a little while.)

* * *

**Part I**(_Age Six_): Too Small to Fight Back, and Too Big to Forget…

The bottle smashes into the wall right above his head, and fear floods through his small body as he drops onto his knees. It's instinct – pure instinct. And by the time colorful, glass slivers begin raining down upon his skin, his hands are already curling over his head as he tucks himself into a ball. He wishes he were invisible. Rocks back and forth. Tries not to think about the kind, caring faces of the nurses who stitched his arm last time, because they cannot help him now. _They_ are gone, and _he_ is here, and he feels very much… alone.

Silence.

It floods through the room like a tidal wave, and he thinks – just for a moment – that maybe one broken bottle will be enough tonight. Maybe there won't be any hitting. Or any shoving. No trips to the doctor, or anything…

…worse.

In the _next_ breath, though, he realizes it won't last – that the quiet is just another part of the storm, passing through the night like a ghost. So he tries to stay calm and concentrate on his breathing; tries to remind himself that he is fine, he is strong, he is _brave_. He doesn't think about the scar above his wrist, and he doesn't worry about what the neighbors might be able to hear: shouting, cursing, crying, and on and on again, like a very bad dream.

It's all so embarrassing.

It makes him feel small and lost and ashamed. But then again…

…_then again…_

Maybe they don't hear anything. Maybe _no one_ hears anything.

Because if they could, then wouldn't someone come to help?

Help.

Help.

Help.

The word is stuck in his head – one, two, three, four letters – and he's busy trying to distract himself with spelling, when the sound of laughter catches him completely by surprise. It's new. And different. And although he knows it _should_ sound happy (that's what laughter is supposed to be, right?), it doesn't. It sounds low and growly instead, like a lion's muffled roar, and it makes him forget all about being brave. Gooseflesh crawls up the back of his neck like a weed, and he can _feel_ the moment pressing down on him, weighing heavy against his shoulders until he curls up even tighter.

The sound keeps going and going, so he jabs his fingers in his ears and tries to make it all stop. Why won't it stop? And he doesn't know what he's done wrong this time, or why everything always feels so sad. He's just… he's so tired. Too tired. He's too small to fight back, and too big to forget, and he feels helpless.

Everything is tense, now. There's even a sickening scent in the air, and he doesn't like it at all. Everything he can _hear_ and _see_ and _smell_ feels like a test, too – like someone's twisted idea of a dare. And he worries that if he cries or makes excuses… if he uncurls his body or tries to speak… then he will fail. So, he just concentrates on breathing – in and out, in and out – while he counts numbers in his mind and wonders how high he will get this time.

At _twenty_, mean words suddenly replace the laughter. And his mum is in the background, crying and asking for it to please _stop_. He wants to cry, too. He wants to run to her – to hug her, and to _be _hugged, and to pretend he's somewhere else.

But he's afraid… so he doesn't.

"What a pathetic little bastard," his father shouts – as if being six years old and terrified is some kind of unforgiveable sin. As if he can't even crouch on the floor correctly, and that everything is all his fault.

It _hurts_. It hurts his feelings, and there's a strange throbbing in his chest, and his stomach is aching so badly now that he thinks he might actually vomit on himself.

At _forty_, all of the unshed tears start to burn his eyes, so he digs his fingernails into his own skin to try and fight off the urge to let them fall. Sometimes those terrible words hurt more than the cuts and bruises do.

"You're nothing but a stupid piece of…"

By the time he reaches _sixty_, his shoulders are shaking. He can't quite catch his breath, and his eyes are still burning, and the trick with his fingernails is getting harder and harder to do – he's even broken the skin. And behind every horrible thing his father shouts, he hears his mum, too. So he tries to concentrate on her… and he tries to act braver than he feels, just for her sake.

He doesn't want her to cry anymore.

He's scared and ashamed and angry, all at the same time, and yet… he also wants to fight back. To prove his father wrong. To stand up, look the man right in the eye, and…

But he's only six years old.

His father might as well be a giant.

So he doesn't.

When he reaches _seventy-five_, the kick barely misses his right knee. And his father is even angrier, now – angry because it didn't connect… because his mum has started to yell even louder… and then because the _second_ attempt is a failure, too. Six year old boys are quick, after all, and his instincts are sharp. He knows when to dodge, when to cower, when to keep still, and when to run.

(He doesn't like to run, though, because he doesn't want to be a coward.)

At _ninety_, the jingle of keys sounds dreadfully loud, and he hears those heavy, steel-toed boots carry his father closer to the door. Thud… thud… thud. He's so excited by the idea that the giant is going away– _oh_, _he's opening the door, now! and then mum will make everything better, and his stomach won't feel so sick! _– that he forgets about the "dare." He forgets that keeping still is safest. So he sits up instead, shaking the circulation back into his limbs and feeling proud of himself because he didn't cry.

At _one hundred_, though, the tears begin to fall… and he can't stop them anymore. His father is shouting again – shouting and swearing and kicking at the wall, waving keys instead of a glass bottle. And his little six-year-old face burns with embarrassment, because each barbed word the man hurls is so very, very _mean_.

The urge to cower flares up again. It wars with the instinct to run, and his legs lock in a battle of wills. His body seems to be fighting itself. He feels even sicker now, and he starts counting again in hopes that a routine will calm him down. But until the door finally slams and he hears his father walk away… nothing does.

Maybe when he's older – when he's bigger and stronger – he'll be able to fight back. To help his mum. To be happy, sometimes.

And maybe when he's older, everything will make sense.

But honestly?

He doesn't think he'll ever understand how so much anger and hate can possibly fit inside one man.

* * *

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**: I can't thank all of you enough for the kind feedback - it's very much appreciated! The subject matter in this story is much darker than what I usually write, and I just wanted to say that I'm glad you're willing to take this particular journey with me. Many thanks to my beta, too - she rocks as a friend, she's mega-talented, &amp; she's a fantastic listener / supportive shoulder / sounding board. Without her encouragement, I probably would've put these chapters straight into my recycle bin.

I just want to restate the obvious, here, and remind you all that there is a big, huge **trigger warning** with this whole story. It applies to every chapter. Not every chapter will follow the format that the first two use, but for the most part? They're all pretty dark.

And now, on with the story...

* * *

**Part II** (Age Nine): How Sad To Know the Routine So Well…

The force of the blow knocks him off his feet and he stumbles forward with outstretched arms, as he tries to dodge the sharp edge of the table. His face stings. His cheeks are hot with anger and residual pain, and he feels the burn of embarrassment flood across them just before he lands. And _this time_, he does it correctly. He manages to successfully avoid the furniture and land on his knees instead – in a shaking, sickened pile atop their faded brown rug. But he doesn't dare relax, though.

Not yet.

There are shouts coming from above him. They're filled with angry, hateful, awful words. And although he has already heard them a thousand different times in a thousand different ways, the cuts they leave behind still mark him just as deeply as the first. Repetition doesn't make the humiliation any easier to swallow, either.

He pays attention to everything lately. He studies the smallest sound and the tiniest movement, in hopes of finding a pattern to whatever _starts_ the madness. Like a trigger. A clue that will tell him when to fight back, when to hide, and when to just accept the pain. And it's all a game, really. A little chess match he plays in his own head – trying to stay ten moves ahead of someone who is older, stronger, and bigger than he is.

Lucky enough, he's always been good at that game.

This time, he gets only as far as step number two – avoidance – before the footsteps begin again. They thud toward him, sounding hopelessly loud in their small home, and he tries to scramble out of the way because he already knows what is about to happen.

Boots.

The man always wears steel-toed boots.

At least it's wintertime, though. The extra layers of clothes he's wearing will help to smother the pain.

He glances up just in time to see the first kick coming, and he manages to roll himself into a tight little ball so that the back of his thigh takes the worst of the punishment – not his bony, nine-year-old shin. _Wham_! The sharp steel-toe slices into his skin and he cries out immediately. He's scared, and he's hurt, and he just wants to understand why all of this keeps happening. Why his mum's arms keep getting bruised, and why he can't go to sleep at night without hearing things that _no_ little boy should have to hear… and why someone who is supposed to love him is always so cruel.

The second kick lands on his ribs – on the right side, where he's still sore from last time. So he cries out – pleads with someone, anyone, _every_one to come and help him, because surely something is broken now. It burns. His whole body _burns_. He's scared and confused, and yet… he starts to feel calmer, too, because things have never gone past two kicks before. One slap across his face and two kicks below the belt – that's how it works.

How sad to know the routine so well.

It's _one_ slap across his face, and _two_ kicks below the belt, and he can count just fine, _thank-you-very-much_. He might not know how to predict the beginning of his father's madness yet… but that's exactly how it's been ending lately. So in a crazy, sickening, twisted sort of way, he almost welcomes the burning pain in his ribcage, because it means that everything is probably done.

He grimaces as he presses his palm over his side for support, and then turns over again – looking up at the man who is standing above him. He's never been this brave before. Never this bold. The eyes that stare back into his are dark with frustration and rage, and a second later – when a fresh string of curses drops from that angry, angry mouth, he decides that maybe he was wrong this time. Maybe everything _isn't_ done. Fear thuds down into his stomach as he watches those cold eyes in the low evening light. Every heartbeat makes his body ache with pain, and he thinks he might vomit all over the floor.

He needs to get up.

To stand.

To feel safe again.

He just wants it all to _stop_.

But the words come again when he's halfway to his knees. They're louder this time. They're loud and cruel, and he just…

…_he just_…

He can't do it anymore. He _can't_. It's all too hard, and too much, and why can't they be a normal family for a change? One with a white picket fence, and a mum who doesn't cry, and a dad who doesn't make promises that he can't keep?

The words begin to slur, and his father stumbles forward. The man laughs. Sneers. Draws his foot back again to have another kick with those heavy, heavy boots…

And _this_, he realizes, is the precipice. The tipping point. He might be a child, and he might be scared, but in that mental chess match he's still playing, he sees only one way out. He can either face his fear, head on… or he can wait for the inevitable pain.

What he lacks in size he more than makes up for in speed. He's a fast kid, you know. Very fast. He is fast, and the alcohol has made his father a little bit slow, and by the time his brain realizes what his body is doing, he's already on his feet – quite literally facing his fear, as he starts to shout at the top of his lungs.

"Dad, please!" he says – his voice slicing through the thick, stale air as time seems to freeze all around him. "It's _enough_, already! Just _stop_!"

His heart is pounding and his fists are clenched, and he has no clue how he's actually managing to breathe, because every inhale feels like a knife stabbing into him, and every exhale burns with humiliation and shame. It should not have gone this far. Too far, too far, too far, too far. He still feels sick – thinks there's still a good chance he might vomit. And he's so tired, too. He needs to sleep. To crawl into his bed and under his covers and sleep away from everything bad.

He's never shouted like that before. Not to his mum, or to his dad, or to anyone at all. He's always been the quiet one. Fast and quiet, like a mouse. But he's nine now. And he wants to be a lion.

His father looks stunned, because _this_ wasn't a part of anyone's plan. Defiance… bravery… rebelliousness. Those words have never been in the Lightman family script until now. Until now, women and children were _seen_ – not heard. And little boys named Cal didn't scream at their fathers.

He concentrates on breathing. Wills his stomach to calm down. And while he's trying to stop his own hands from shaking, his father's hands are steady. They reach out for him again. They try to slap and shove and push and pull… but he dodges. He rears back, unsteady, and braces himself with one arm against a bookshelf as the other shoots outward in self-defense.

In _self-defense_, yeah?

Should that word even _be_ in a nine-year-old boy's vocabulary?

His ribs ache. The pain travels down, down, down – past his knee, to his shin, to his ankle, and back up again – and he honestly has no idea how he's managed not to cry. Maybe because he's too stubborn? Too scared? Or maybe…

…maybe he just doesn't want his father to "win" that part of this war. To break his spirit. To make him feel _weak_.

Because he **isn't**, you know?

He isn't weak at all.

His muscles tense in tandem, waiting to see what will happen next. And he looks past the angry face to a point behind it instead: his mum. She stands at the doorway – with one hand on the frame, and one outstretched towards him – and edges into the room. She takes one step… then a second… and by the third, distance pulls her fingertips away from the splintering wood, while instinct curls them into a fist at her side.

"Cal…"

Her voice breaks on the last letter of his name, and he isn't sure _why_, exactly, but the sound propels him forward. He doesn't even think - he just moves away from the wall on instinct, and doesn't stop moving until he stands right in front of his father. And he stands _**up**_, too. Straight up. He's not slouched; not crumpled. He's _tall_.

And brave.

And strong.

Because he's _nine_, now – not six. Remember?

And he hates the way fear makes him feel inside.

* * *

To be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N**: Please note the trigger warning for this chapter. Also, thank you so very much for the kind feedback on this story - and since I can't reply to guest reviews, I just want to say that I don't intend for every single entry to be so sad / traumatic - that's just the way Cal's path begins. As always, let me give a giant hug &amp; thank you to my beta for her helpful advice and keen editing eye / shared love of these characters. And now, chapter 3...

* * *

**Part III** (_Age Ten_): **Behind Layers of Cotton and Lies**

The wind whips around the corner of the building and howls as it greets them: four ten-year-old boys, wearing too-thin coats and guilty smiles. It's December already. Ten days until Christmas. Twinkling lights decorate almost everything in sight, and the happy colors dance in the darkness under his watchful eye.

He stomps his feet for warmth and hears the wet ground slosh beneath the weight of his shoes. His clothes are still damp from the afternoon rain, but he's too busy curling his hand around the prize in his pocket to worry about something as silly as the weather. Over and over and over again, he turns it, as he tries to memorize the texture of brown paper against his palm, and the scent of tobacco in the air.

His mates race ahead. They're all eager to reach the safety of the shadows, and he hears them start to whisper as they go. They're worried, see? Not enough to actually _stop_, or to change the plan altogether… but genuinely worried, all the same. They don't want to get caught, and they don't want to be punished, and he thinks to himself – legitimately _to himself_, because he'd never say it aloud – that they ought to try living in his house for a week, just to see how heavy that word can really be.

To him, 'punishment' means pain. It means cuts and bruises, stitches and plasters, tears and shouting and fear and madness. It means huddling in the darkness, trying to block out everything he can see, hear, taste, and feel, in hopes of finding comfort in his dreams.

_To him_? Those things are inevitable – they're normal, even. Alcohol never bothers to ask for an explanation, and hatred doesn't seem to care that he's only ten years old. And instead of being worried, he's actually feeling rather calm. This is _his_ decision, and _his_ life, and it's _his_ chance to actually embrace something – to take a risk – rather than to cower in the stillness of his bedroom, while his mum apologizes for someone else's sins.

His mates don't look at him like he's a freak, and they don't tell him that he's stupid, and maybe he's gone mad – maybe the ache of a life lived in the shadows is beginning to pull him apart at the seams – but what he wants, more than anything, is to hold onto the moment just a little bit longer. To live. To breathe. To feel normal, for a change. So he reminds them that a brick wall and the cover of darkness _do_ make things practically invisible, and that no one knows where they've gone.

Besides…

He has fresh bruises on his back and a new scar on his forearm – and as soon as worry even _thinks_ about taking root in his fingertips, his body and his brain both laugh in its face. His life is different, remember? Being spied with a smoke isn't likely to make it that much worse.

"It'll be _fine_," he promises, trying to reassure himself as he reassures them – which is crazy, because this wasn't even his plan in the first place. It wasn't his plan, and he very nearly didn't come at all… but now that he's actually here, he can't imagine being anywhere else.

And somehow? His reassuring works. Within seconds, they're passing a faded matchbook from hand to outstretched hand. His best mate brags about having such a brilliant idea, and four awkward strikes later, flame blends with smoke and adolescence in the crisp winter air.

The whole thing feels almost _electric_. It's as if someone has given him a big bottle of freedom, and he wants to drink it down in one gulp. His heart races, and his skin tingles, and his limbs pulse with energy as he wills his body to hold still. And no one is worried about getting caught now, either, because they're all too busy trying to become men.

It's four boys, three cigarettes, two muffled curses (when the tallest drops a lit match), and one lone cigar. And _that's_ his prize, see? The cigar. Which makes him the misfit yet again.

This time, though, being different quickly becomes a small victory as the others gasp and grin in envy of that stolen cigar, and it's fantastic. Really, truly _fantastic_! They all want what he has, and he isn't quite sure what to _say_, exactly, because it's a brand new experience. They're looking at him in admiration, not pity, and it makes him want to freeze the moment – to stay there as long as possible, to soak up their attention like a sponge.

He's watched his father do this no fewer than a thousand different times, but he's never tried it himself. He has no intentions of changing his mind now, though, and somehow he's been elected to go first… so he simply shrugs his shoulders and steels his lungs, as his three mates stare on in wonder. And when he manages _not_ to choke to death on the first puff, they all scramble to copy his every movement.

They smoke.

Tell a few jokes.

Pretend that they're invincible.

And for a little while? It feels like they actually _are_ – like their clothing doesn't stink of stale fumes, and their faces aren't too red from coughing, and ash doesn't litter the ground at their feet. But it's all just acting, really. They're each playing a different role. Geoffrey is the troublemaker, and Peter is the tough guy… Eddie is the smart one, and Cal is…

…_Cal is_…

Well he's the chameleon, apparently. Imagine that.

_He_ nicked a cigar, and _he_ taught them all how to smoke. He tells the funniest jokes, and he's smiling like a fool now, too – like his face can't remember how to do anything else. And he decides that it's pretty fantastic to be a character, sometimes.

To play a role.

To be brave enough to transform into something new.

He's rather good at it, too, yeah? At the acting. It fits him like a glove.

The _bravery_, on the other hand, doesn't feel quite so natural yet. It feels forced and misshapen, like he's trying to wear his clothing two sizes too small. And while he goes through the motions – laughing, and joking, and burning his lungs with toxic air – he's breaking apart on the inside. He's thinking crazy things, like what would happen if he never went back home again…

…or if he had an easier life.

…or if he didn't have to hide his darkest secrets behind layers of cotton and lies.

At age _six_, he was a shy little mouse. At _nine_, he wanted to be a lion.

But he's ten now.

So maybe it's time he finally learned how to roar.

* * *

He sneaks through the back door and slips out of his shoes, hyper-aware of every sound he makes. Being quiet is key – and when the urge to cough hits him straight out of the blue, it takes every ounce of self-control in his body not to give into temptation. _Not yet, not yet, not yet_, he tells himself, as he shrugs out of his coat and heads toward the stairs.

He's late. At least an hour, by the looks of it. The lingering scent of whatever his mum cooked for dinner wafts out from the darkened kitchen, and his stomach growls to remind him that he hasn't eaten yet. He's bloody starving. And cold. And without his mates to help keep it in check, the bravery he wore earlier begins to fade. It still feels a bit like he's breaking into a dozen pieces, but for the most part? He's okay. Fear, guilt, happiness, and relief all swirl through his body and tangle into one big heap, and he thinks – no, no, scratch that, he _knows_ – that he'd do it all again in a heartbeat.

It was worth it, yeah?

No matter what happens to him now.

He glances over his shoulder to make sure nothing is amiss, and then quickly climbs the first three stairs. But when he reaches the fourth one? It squeaks. Loudly. The board buckles beneath his foot, and his whole body instinctively freezes in midair. All the self-talk about being a chameleon flies right out of his brain, and he falls back into old habits in the blink of an eye.

So essentially? He's trapped. His whole pathetic "be quiet" plan has just gone up in flames – and although he _reeks_ of cigars and guilt from head to toe, his legs can't seem to understand that they need to carry him straight to the safety of his bedroom before his father starts asking questions.

_Where have you been?_

_What are you trying to hide?_

_Do you know what happens to little boys who lie?_

The man uses cruel words when he's sober and then adds fists when he's not – and together, the combination is brutal. So when the sound of footsteps immediately follows that too-loud squeak, he panics. His throat runs dry, and his head starts to ache, and he feels like a fool for ever thinking that things would be "fine," because clearly? They aren't.

"Cal?"

It's just his name, but the raw, sinister sound of it makes him want to cry. His muscles tense for flight, and his eyes begin to water as he braces himself for the storm. But in the _next_ breath, though – when he's convinced the bottom is about to drop out of his world – everything…

"Is that you, boy?"

…everything changes. Without any warning at all.

He doesn't know how long it takes or why it's even happening, but something within that short question begins to ease his fear. The ache in his chest loosens enough to let him breathe without feeling cornered, and bravery slowly floods in to replace the panic.

_Bravery_, see?

That's what he feels.

It travels up, up, up – moving from his gut to his fingertips, and along the entire length of his spine – and it instantly reminds him how good it felt to take control of his own choices. To embrace risk, regardless of consequence. He doesn't want to be weak, and he's tired of hiding everything behind a self-constructed wall. Sometimes the secrets demand daylight and the scars want to tell stories, and shouldn't they be allowed to be free?

Shouldn't _he_?

"Answer me when I talk to you!"

He's ten years old and a fraction of his father's size. And as soon as the man rounds the corner, his survival instincts try to overtake everything else – including the bravery. They scrape and claw at his limbs, hoping to push his body from danger even as his mind refuses to cooperate. He's stubborn, yeah? And so it quickly becomes deadlock right there on the stairs.

"I'm… I'm sorry," he answers. Pathetically. And even though it's basically a lie, it's all he knows to say. He fidgets when he's nervous, and sometimes he forgets to use his words, and neither of those things seem like a very good option right now. At least an apology is a starting point. It's _something_. And it's braver than running up the stairs.

His father gives no reply. For several moments, the man just stares – with those cold eyes and that angry smirk, as the silence slowly becomes overwhelming. And even though he doesn't really _want_ to speak again, he can't seem to stop himself, either. So he fidgets and sighs, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he shrugs and says…

"Didn't mean to be rude, dad. I just didn't hear you at first, is all."

Which is yet another lie, of course. He didn't run, and he didn't crumble, and he doesn't understand why bravery and lying suddenly seem like two sides of the same coin, but they do. All things considered, though? He's pretty proud of himself. He played the chameleon yet again, and it feels wonderful.

Until it doesn't anymore.

A cruel laugh slowly builds in the space between them, and its sinister tone makes body go tense again as he starts second-guessing everything in his head. He'll never understand why someone who is supposed to love and protect him can be so quick to cause harm, but that's clearly what his father intends to do. As always.

"I already know you took one."

And there it is: six words, one truth, and the sickening realization that both of his lies are about to unravel. So instead of feeling free, he feels incredibly foolish instead. His eyes burn with humiliation as he nearly starts to cry, and he's quite certain that all the punishments he's known before will pale in comparison to the one that likely awaits him now.

But 'nearly.' That's the key word. He _nearly_ starts to cry – which is the exact moment when the bravery steps in again, to remind him that he still has a choice. It's _his_ life, and _his_ path, and nothing will ever change unless _he_ does. He can either race for the shadows and wait for the monster to chase him down, or…

He can stay.

Stand tall.

Face the consequences of his actions like the lion he longs to be, rather than the mouse he once was.

"Say something, you stupid little piece of…"

There's no time to think about anything, or to try and guess how much his father has already had to drink. So he just keeps on breathing, in and out through smoke-singed lungs, as the horrible words wash over his skin like acid. They _burn_. They pierce, and scar, and scald. And it makes him sick to realize that this has become their version of normal; no one cares, and no one helps, and no one understands that he's suffocating behind a wall of secret shame.

Shame.

Shame.

Shame.

Somewhere between the insults and the curses, that word gets stuck inside his head on a loop. He knows it's only a matter of time before the man starts using his fists, and he just can't take that type of pain again. He _can't_, and he _won't_ – and just like that, every instinct within his body suddenly changes course and screams at him to stand his ground. To face the monster. To _roar_. And so…

He finally does.

Adrenaline floods through his system, and he lunges forward so fast that the momentum carries him down all four stairs in one go. And when he lands – shaky but still standing – he doesn't even pause long enough to catch his breath, before looking up at his father and shouting at the top of his lungs.

"_I am not stupid!"_ he cries, right into the man's cruel face. "And I didn't take _anything_!"

He's sick of being treated like rubbish, and he's tired of being afraid… and the sheer release of what he's just done is so bloody amazing that he can barely even _think_. His entire body feels like it has just run a marathon – he can't breathe, he can't see, and he never would've thought himself capable of shouting like that to anyone, much less his father.

In his imagination? Yes.

In his dreams? Of course.

But this is different.

The man is right there, you know? He's standing _right there_, with those cold eyes and that terrible sneer, and it's… empowering. He wants to memorize the moment, so he never forgets how fantastic it can feel to follow his heart.

Reality comes crashing down upon his shoulders just a few beats later, though. And by the time he realizes what he's done, and how horribly his father will react, it's too late to do anything but brace himself for the pain. Cuts, bruises, blood, tears, chaos, rage – surely those are the things that await him now. Which means that he'll likely cower and cry, counting numbers in his mind as he dreams of a better future.

Seconds pass. The tick, tick, tick of the hallway clock cuts through the silence and begs him to take notice – to start counting _now_, not later. Because for whatever reason…

No pain actually comes.

So it's a day of firsts, apparently. He shouted at his father and nicked a cigar. He smoked, and he lied, and now the punishment he's been expecting all evening doesn't happen at all. Which is completely bizarre. His eyes squint in suspicion, as survival instincts automatically kick in and begin to pull him backwards up the first two stairs. Gooseflesh prickles up and down his arms, and he can practically _feel_ the man's anger pulse through the room in waves now, just waiting for something to spark an explosion.

He feels lightheaded… sweaty… and very, very nauseous. He knows something is wrong, and he knows this whole thing can't possibly go away so easily, but he's just a boy – what can he do about it, anyway?

His fingers curl around the handrail as he slinks further up the staircase, and he tries not to panic as his father finally begins to move. And he wants so badly to crouch behind the nearest door. To hide. To lock himself in the darkness, and forget all about bravery, pain, and consequence.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he reaches the top landing and braces one hand against the far wall, as he pauses to catch his breath. The house is completely silent now, save for the faint sounds of the television blaring downstairs – and _that_, more than anything else, is the "thing" that shakes him out of his panicked fog and back into reality. His thoughts bounce back and forth from the sounds of the telly, to the mental image of his mum watching the screen all alone. And he just wants…

He just wants to be brave _for her_, too – no matter what happens next. He wants to protect her from the chaos; to take his father's wrath onto his own shoulders, rather than watch it spill over onto hers. Before he manages to speak another word, though, a slow-spreading smile suddenly pulls at the man's lips. It looks ominous and threatening… dangerous and cruel… and it brings every thought in his head to an instant, screeching halt.

"I'm not stupid either, Cal. And _you_ smell like smoke."

And he _does_, yeah? Of course he does. He smells like smoke, and guilt, and fear, and it's vile. It's _vile_. His stomach lurches and he starts to gag. He clasps one hand over his mouth and shoots the other one out in front of his chest in sad display of self-defense, and he just…

He doesn't know what to do anymore.

Or what to say.

Or how to make it all stop.

So when his father speaks again – when the words "forget the whole thing" are thrown into the mix like some kind of magical life preserver – his gut reaction is to say no. No, no, no, no_. _Mostly because nothing could possibly be that easy, and surely it's some kind of trick, and he's ten – _ten_! He's too old to believe in magic, he's too scared to take another risk, and it takes every ounce of strength in his small body not to vomit right there on the floor. Trusting his father isn't something he's willing to do.

Not yet, anyway.

To his credit, he makes it through two more offers to "forget" and three promises that everything will be "just fine," before his very stubborn '_not_ _yet_' begins to weaken and crack. He's exhausted. He's hungry and cold, and he just wants to crawl into bed – to bury himself beneath layers of blankets and forget about the entire world until sunrise. Where's the harm in that, right?

And why does everything have to be so _hard_ all the time?

"Would save us both a whole lot of trouble if you'd just come clean," the man offers again. "I hate a bloody liar, but if you admit the truth _now_ – if you can look me right in the eye and confess to nicking one of my cigars? Then this'll all be over. I'll go back downstairs and forget the whole thing, no questions asked."

Truth.

Liar.

Confess.

Those are the words that resonate within him, thick with guilt, as he finally just decides to take a leap of faith. To trust. To believe in his father's promise, rather than be silenced and shamed by the scars of the past. He wants things to be better now. And so he takes a deep breath… gathers all of his courage… and says…

"You're right, dad. I took one, and I'm sorry. It was a stupid thing to do, yeah? And I promise it won't happen again."

His breath comes in deep, jagged pulls as the silence falls between them once more. Tiny waves of relief mix with lingering anxiety, and he probably couldn't hold himself still even if his life depended on it. Adrenaline surges through his body, and he's _so_ proud of himself for standing his ground and for finding his courage…

…that when a sharp right hook hits him squarely in the jaw?

He's too stunned to cry.

A second blow lands low on his stomach, and a third splits his lip and sends him straight to his knees in total defeat. The pain sears through his midsection as his lungs scream for air, and he's just… broken.

His mouth fills with so much blood that he gags as it dribbles down his chin, and all he can think – literally, _all_ he can think – is that he'll never trust anyone again.

Maybe not even himself.

* * *

(**A/N**: Just in case any of you were wondering, the idea for this chapter came straight from 'Killer App,' when Cal speaks about his childhood. Also, the next chapter should put him somewhere around age 12-14.)


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N**: Hello! I just wanted to take a tiny minute to say a few things: First - because I'm paranoid and I overthink everything, I just wanted to put a disclaimer out there that I started writing this chapter a few weeks ago, and I promise I didn't borrow the character's name from the adorable newborn princess. Second - I spent the entire month of March dealing with a health issue that crept into my daughter's life, and introduced us to the world of biopsies, MRIs, and bottomless fear. Everything is fine now, thankfully, and I hope to be posting much more regularly. March kicked my butt, and it took me most of April to recover, and I can't even tell you what a lovely escape it is to play around with these characters. Thirdly... my beta is awesome. One of the lines in this chapter was her idea, &amp; I paraphrased her words (section 3, in which Cal can't tell if his mates are lying), and not only did she help me plug numerous holes in this installment, but she has talked me off a ledge more times than I can probably count. She rocks. And all of the people who have stuck with this story, sent me messages / feedback / well-wishes for my daughter? You guys rock too. :) Hope you enjoy the chapter!

-Jen

* * *

**Part IV** (_Age Twelve_): **Until there's nothing left of them but moonlight and stars…**

Charlotte.

Her name is Charlotte.

She has pale skin and emerald eyes… she is kind and funny, gentle and sweet. She's his biggest fear and his deepest desire all rolled into one, and her smile makes him feel alive in ways he'll never admit aloud. To anyone. Ever.

The most obvious truth is that he wants to kiss her. Repeatedly. He _is_ twelve now, after all – which means that thoughts of girls, freedom, and delicious temptations occupy roughly ninety-five percent of the space in his head, while the remainder scrambles to play catchup with the rest of his life. He's no saint, to be sure. He's… curious. He's interested. And of all the things he lacks, an active imagination is not one of them.

In his mind? Everything is always easy. He has confidence in spades, and just enough experience to know exactly what he's doing. His voice doesn't crack at the worst possible times, and she never notices the scars on his arm or the bruises on his wrist. In his mind, he doesn't worry about saying the right thing, or finding the right moment… because in his _mind_, she fancies him anyway. Regardless of circumstance.

In _reality_, though, things are different.

He's nowhere near as confident as he likes to pretend, and being twelve isn't easy at all.

She lives nearby, in a quiet little flat with her quiet little family, and with a father who doesn't hide his own insecurities behind a bottle of booze. She has a sister. A puppy. A picture perfect life to which he cannot relate in any way, and a heart that carries hope rather than pain.

She is free, see?

…but he is not.

Which means that the not-so obvious truth is framed in fear. His fear. Not of _her_, and not of the world in general – but of rejection. Of being pitied. He's scared that if he takes a chance… if he gets everything right, and Charlotte truly does fancy him just as much as he fancies her… that he'll find happiness for an instant, only to watch it shatter as soon as she sees the parts of himself that he always tries so hard to hide.

Hide.

Hide.

Hide.

Pity that word is still such a constant in his life.

He thinks of winter as the hardest season. Long sleeves mask the souvenirs of his family's private demons, and footprints of denial echo through the chills and darkness. Time passes slowly, weeks blend into months, and when it finally ends – when sunshine and (empty?) promises of sobriety suddenly turn everything on its ear – there she stands. His Charlotte. And the future doesn't feel quite so daunting anymore.

They spend the earliest days of springtime falling into a shy routine. She doesn't ask questions, and he doesn't pretend to be someone he's not… and it _works_, yeah? It just works. It's scary, and it's brilliant, and some days it feels like his feet don't even touch the ground.

…like he's living inside a dream.

…like he's suspended – midair, mid-breath, mid-everything – without the weight of a thousand broken promises to hold him down.

He thinks of her at nighttime, when the faint whispers of his mum's fading tears leave him restless in his bed. He thinks of her laughter, her smile, and the sweet way she speaks his name. And then he tries to understand why something as small as alcohol has the power to control so many different lives.

Instinct still tells him not to trust anyone. It understands that promises break, priorities shift, and selfishness often suffocates the places where unconditional love is supposed to live.

**But**.

If he listens close enough… if he looks beyond the scars, past the doubts, and above the shadows of his past… he senses something new, now. Mostly because he _wants_ to trust Charlotte.

And he wants to believe that people can change.

* * *

They walk on eggshells for the first seven days, waiting for the inevitable storm: rage always comes first, pain comes second… and then guilt comes third, every single time the phrase "staying sober" fails to be as easy as it sounds.

This?

It's attempt number nine, actually. Take his mum's broken arm, two fist-sized holes in the bathroom wall, a doctor with the intuition of a bloodhound, and poof! Deja-vu. There's no beer in the fridge and no liquor in the cabinets, and he thinks there's nothing more than a _sliver_ of a chance that this so-called 'fresh start' will last longer than a week.

…until it does.

Imagine that.

On days eight and nine, they struggle to find their footing. They're unsure how to relax in the presence of a man they can't afford to trust, yet keenly aware that they shouldn't take a single peaceful moment for granted, lest it all blow up in their faces by day ten.

But it doesn't.

So imagine _that_, too.

By day twenty-three, his mum no longer cries when she thinks no one is watching. The scar on his wrist is fading bit by bit. His body is completely pain free for the first time in a year… he walks taller, laughs louder, sleeps soundly, feels strong. And then a week later – as they cross the one month mark – he thinks about how lovely it would be to trust someone again. To have faith without fear.

Bruises heal. Bones mend. Scars fade, and tears dry. And those things are _visible_, yeah? They're obvious. They're tangible, physical ways to measure a thousand _in_tangible emotions. The hardest work, though… the hardest work happens on the inside, where it can't be seen. Because that's the place where fear takes root.

Month two passes quickly. His shy routine with Charlotte picks up steam along the way, and she kisses him on day sixty-one, beneath the semi-private shade of a towering tree. It comes completely out of the blue, ends far too quickly, and leaves him grinning like a mute fool. He has no idea what he's doing, see? Not a single clue. But he loves it – all of it. He loves the way his heart won't stop hammering within his chest… the way his lungs shift into overdrive… he loves _all_ of it.

He presses a hand to his lips in surprise, as she blushes crimson and then turns to walk away. She looks happy. Really, truly, _genuinely_ happy to be with him – and right then and there, he feels it take root: faith.

He's starting to have faith in himself, now.

Finally.

* * *

He flies into motion roughly one tenth of a second after the final bell begins to ring – and a beat later, there he is: in the hallway. Waiting outside her classroom door. Trying to act like he's perfectly fine; like his palms aren't sweaty, and his brain isn't overthinking every bloody thing, while he tries to decide what to say.

He has no idea how to go about shifting their relationship into something more… formal… without looking like a total wanker in the process – and the fact that his mates are total _crap_ at nonchalance isn't helping at all, because he can hear them in the background. They sound like a trio of fools. One of them whoops and hollers every few moments, while the other two hide their excitement behind phony coughs and too-loud snickering. And then as soon as she finally appears, they grow silent.

Instantly, obviously silent.

Which makes him want to kick them all in the kneecaps just for sport.

Her red hair falls in ringlets past her shoulders, and her voice curls around his name with perfect ease. She smiles. The word "hello" takes approximately seventeen times too long to make it from his brain to his lips, and they're halfway down the hall before his inner gentleman kicks in and insists that he carry her books.

She's quite tall, actually. In between rounds of mentally kicking himself for never doing something as basic as carrying her books before, it's her height that catches his eye the most and makes them look ridiculously mismatched. Strange he hasn't noticed it until now. **Yes**, they walk home together almost every day (…in a group, yeah? In a _group_, not as an exclusive pair. There's a difference…), and **yes**, he has eyes – but the last time they stood this close together and he had time enough to concentrate on things as basic as height, she kissed him. And he was far more interested in the taste of her lips than the differences in their stature.

It doesn't matter, anyway. That's what he tells himself.

He tells himself _those_ words, in _that_ order, as if he's willing the fear to stay away. He's trying to ignore the fact that they are so very, very different, because he wants to focus on the bigger picture instead.

Besides…

It's not as if he can grow a head taller by Wednesday, and hey – Charlotte doesn't seem to care. So why should he? She kissed him, remember? _She_ kissed _him_. Which means he must be doing something right.

She smells like strawberries, and she's wearing tiny pearl earrings. He's wearing long sleeves to hide his arm, and he probably didn't even brush his hair this morning, and let's face it: if he wanted to let the fear run wild, then it would have roughly twenty-seven different reasons as to why he should let it win. Why he shouldn't take a risk. Why he should be content to spend the rest of his days alone, wallowing in the shadows of self-pity. Which is nonsense, see? It's all just total nonsense, and he decides that there is no bloody way he can live with himself if he doesn't try to make this work.

Charlotte.

Charlotte and Cal.

Sounds pretty good, actually.

Three pairs of eyes are boring holes into his back by the time they make it outside, and he's just waiting for one (or more) of them to say something crazy. They're twelve too, remember? And each of them has far more experience with girls than he does.

(That's what they all keep telling him, anyway… but he can't quite decide if they're lying or not.)

They fall into step easily, and he doesn't think to ask the obvious question ("…_mind if we walk alone for a change_?") until they're already halfway to Charlotte's front door. And by the time he realizes that his mates have disappeared, he's too busy noticing all the things he probably shouldn't notice – like her legs – to give so much as a single toss about anything else. The ninety-five percent of his head that normally thinks about kissing her is screaming at the other five to just make a bloody _move_ already, and his hand is itching to hold onto hers.

Stupid books.

Stupid heavy, bulky, boring books.

He shifts his weight and carefully balances the pile in his left arm, trying to act perfectly calm as he wipes his sweaty palm on his trousers. And then with the grace of a drunken giraffe, he makes not one, not two, but _three_ attempts to lace his fingers with hers… only to trip on his own shoelace a mere sixty seconds later, and spill the entire stack of those sodding books all over the ground.

He's mortified.

A string of muffled curses shoots out of his mouth as he tries – but fails – to laugh at his own mistake. And he's too busy trying to salvage his dignity to notice a single thing about what Charlotte is doing… until she drops down on the ground beside him, smiling as widely as he's ever seen, and starts brushing grass off the pages and spines. She looks happy. Genuinely happy. He's a mess, and he's nervous, and he doesn't understand why his limbs have suddenly gone rogue, or why his body can't seem to complete basic tasks like _walking_, for example, without turning the whole scene into a slapstick parade… but she's happy.

And she's beautiful.

And she kissed him, yeah?

She _kissed_ him.

Which means that he can either let a heartbeat's worth of embarrassment ruin the rest of their afternoon, **or** – and this is a big one – he can trust that every wonderful thing he sees in Charlotte's eyes is just as real as what he feels in his own heart.

They stand. His trousers are covered in dirt and her skirt is wrinkled all to hell. She has leaves and grass on the front of her jumper, and his hair is sticking up at odd angles – and if anyone caught sight of them now, chaos would ensue. Mostly because neither one of them looks innocent at all. _She_ can't stop blushing, and _he_ can't stop grinning, and roughly thirty-five seconds after his still-sweaty hand links with hers? He decides that trusting her…

…trusting _**this**_…

…might be the best thing he ever does.

* * *

By early summer, they are inseparable. His favorite place in the entire world is now the semi-private shade of 'their' towering tree, and kissing her feels as natural as breathing air. And when he thinks of how very differently their story might have gone – without faith, without trust, and _yes_, without the benefit of his father's sobriety nipping at his heels – he decides that the only thing worse than living in the shadows of an abusive alcoholic, is thinking that people can't change.

…or that _all_ promises get broken.

…or that demons are more powerful than love.

People **can** change, yeah? He knows that now. He _sees_ it, firsthand. He can't quite forgive, and he carries scars that will likely never fade – but he's healing, too. And he counts that as a victory.

They take shortcuts through the park, kiss until they lose breath, and eat so much ice cream that their stomachs nearly burst. She tells him stories about holidays with her family, and he doesn't feel self-conscious about telling jokes to fill the spaces where his own family stories would otherwise fit.

He loves her.

Of course he loves her.

And he's pretty sure that she loves him, too.

She asks about his family… meets his mum… and on day one-nineteen (when his father is nearly four months sober, and trust is starting to feel like a long lost friend), he barely thinks twice about veering off-course just long enough to tempt fate. He leads and she eagerly follows, and it isn't until they get within sight of his house – until the faded blue fabric of his father's favorite shirt catches his eye and slows his pace to a crawl – that he realizes just how different life is, now.

'Thinks.'

That's the key word, see?

He barely **thinks** twice about veering off-course – about letting someone he loves with his whole heart come face to face with a man who has hurt him more times than he can possibly count – because the fear doesn't control him anymore. No, he isn't scared of anything, these days. Least of all his past.

And he's too busy being proud of himself to see all the little details; all the telltale signs that point to something being wrong. He's distracted, and he's happy, and Charlotte's smile is far more interesting than trivial, boring things like the time of day… or the fact that his father always works on Wednesdays… or the slightly slurred "_Nice to meet you_," that lands lightly in their wake.

It's day one-nineteen, after all – which seems like half a lifetime of sobriety.

And everything in his world feels pretty bloody good.

* * *

Month five passes quickly. His days are filled with sunshine and sweat – with football, swimming, laughter, and fun. He dreams, and plans, and loves, and lives. And it's perfect, yeah? It's absolutely _perfect_.

…until it isn't.

One-forty-nine. That's how far they make it, before the tiny little voice in the back of his head reawakens and quietly warns him that everything might soon change. But he's twelve, now. He's not a child anymore, and the very last thing he wants to do is admit defeat to anyone – even himself. So he ignores it. He plugs his ears and pretends not to notice, and he holds tight to those perfect, perfect days until there's nothing left of them but moonlight and stars.

He kisses Charlotte beneath the shade of their tree, and on a rainy night in mid-July, the words "_I love you_" take them both by surprise.

Time.

Time.

Time.

The voice in his head is anything but tiny by the earliest signs of August, and the return of his mum's tears begs him to notice that he's running out of time.

And it's too hard to pretend that he can't hear it, now; that he can't feel the tension creeping back into their small home, or see the shadows of his old life growing taller once again. He isn't stupid. He isn't blind, and he _isn't_ stupid… but he **is** stubborn, see? So maybe that's to blame.

Charlotte leads and he eagerly follows, and it isn't until they get within sight of his house – until the faded blue fabric of his father's favorite shirt catches his eye and slows his pace to a crawl – that he realizes just how quickly life can change. Her hand is nestled tightly against his. Her hair smells like strawberries, and her pale skin pulls his gaze in a dozen directions at once, while he wills himself to ignore the terrible, ominous, insistent voice that suddenly begs him not to tempt fate again.

The signs are there, yeah? He sees all of them, now.

He _isn't_ blind, and he _isn't_ stupid.

It's the middle of the afternoon, and his father always works on Wednesdays. The heavily slurred "don't be late for dinner, boy!" lands loudly in their wake. And he thinks – no, no, scratch that, he _knows_ – that somewhere behind their front door, his mum's heart is shattering anew.

Instinct draws his arm around Charlotte's shoulders, and he squeezes her into his body as they pass by. He doesn't want her to feel any of this. He doesn't want her to know what it's like to worry all the time… to break, or to bleed, or to crumple to the floor… and he doesn't want to lie, either, but maybe that's the kindest thing. To lie.

"You look like him," she says suddenly. "'_Like father, like son_.' Isn't that how it goes?"

And it doesn't mean anything – he knows that. She's just making conversation; just trying to fill the silence that is stretching fifteen beats too long, as he grips her shoulder even tighter and wills himself not to say the wrong thing. He shakes his head and curls his lip, and his gut instinct shouts at him to look back. To look right _at_ his father, while he still has the chance.

The bottle is half-empty when the man pulls it away from his lips with a satisfied sigh.

He suspects it isn't the first one today.

It isn't even the _second_, most likely.

His stomach clenches, as he feels the weight of a thousand broken promises reverberate through his body in the span of a single step, and Charlotte smiles innocently as she wraps her arm around the small of his back. The words 'like father, like son' rattle through his head like a live grenade – wicked and wretched and very, very real – and it's all he can do not to vomit. It's all he can do to just keep walking. To concentrate on the feel of her skin and the scent of her hair… on the warmth of the sunshine and the sense of urgency in the air.

In his favorite dreams, everything is easy. His voice doesn't crack at the worst possible times, and his father doesn't find redemption through an endless stream of booze. In his dreams, he doesn't worry about saying the right thing, or making the right choices… because in his _dreams_, Charlotte loves him anyway. Regardless of someone else's mistakes.

In reality, though, he knows things are changing.

And being twelve doesn't seem easy at all.


End file.
